A Ring, A Refusal, and Several Fireships

In the summer of 1588, as the Spanish Armada bobbed about the Channel like a parade of very cross breadbins, Her Majesty Elizabeth sat in council with Lord Blackadder and his assistant, Baldrick, who had turned up in a helmet he swore was “sea-proof,” despite being made of turnip.

“Your Majesty,” purred Blackadder, “the Spaniards are assembling ships larger than your cousin Mary’s arse.”

“Splendid,” said Elizabeth. “We shall greet them with fire, thunder, and a pointed letter beginning ‘Dear Philip, stop it.’”

Baldrick raised a hand. “I’ve got a cunning plan. We paint our ships to look like clouds, then the Armada sails through us, gets a bit damp, and surrenders.”

“Baldrick,” said Blackadder, “that is not a plan. That is weather.”

A messenger burst in, dropped to one knee, and held up a velvet box. “From the Earl of Leicester, Majesty. He requests your hand in marriage. Again.”

Elizabeth opened the box, revealing a ring so gaudy it could have been seen from Calais. She smiled in that friendly, nation-rallying way that made grown men volunteer for cannon duty.

“Tell Leicester,” she said, “that I already have a husband. He is England, he snores like Parliament, and he costs as much as the Navy.”

Blackadder leaned forward. “Shall I draft a reply that expresses a queenly but firm ‘not on your life’?”

Elizabeth stood, the room quieting as if the furniture had bowed. “Write this: ‘I have reasons against marriage which I wouldn't divulge to a twin soul.’ Then add a postscript: ‘Also, do try not to lose the Armada behind the couch.’”

“Majesty,” said Baldrick, “if you won’t marry, how will we get a royal baby?”

“The same way we’ll get rid of the Armada,” said Elizabeth, sweeping toward the door, “with nerve, ships, and men who can aim better than you can think.”

She rode to Tilbury, armour glinting, and gave a speech that made even the horses consider enlisting. The sailors fought, the fireships floated, and the grand Spanish parade discovered that English weather has a particular dislike for Catholic empire-building.

Back at court, Blackadder poured wine. “Your Majesty, England is safe. Leicester sulks. Philip fumes. Baldrick has eaten his helmet.”

“Excellent,” said Elizabeth. “Let the record show that today I married no one, surrendered to no one, and saved everyone.”

Baldrick blinked. “So that’s a no on the baby?”

“It is,” said Blackadder, “and a resounding yes on not being invaded. Try to keep up.”

Elizabeth raised her cup. “To my people. To my ships. And to remaining gloriously unmarried.” She paused. “Someone fetch me a map and a new pen. I feel a very pointed letter coming on.”